


You Are Not Welcome Here

by Leryline



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: AltMal, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-24
Updated: 2013-08-23
Packaged: 2017-12-24 11:17:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/939359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Leryline/pseuds/Leryline
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik and Altaïr have put their past behind them - or so they'd like to believe. They have settled their differences, closed any open wounds. But still Altaïr returns to Jerusalem time after time, often for reasons more than Templars...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fixing Wounds

“I would prefer it if you did not destroy my bureau.”

Altaïr groaned, rolling over onto his back. The searing pain burnt across his left bicep, and he reached up to finger the laceration.

“Malik,” he groaned, blood bubbling past his teeth. He could hear the knights searching for him, but he knew that he was safe. “Malik!”

Malik Al-Sayf sighed, setting down his compass and strolling out into the shuttered, fragmented light. “You are bleeding on my carpets,” the rafiq observed solemnly, the slight, sandy breeze rustling his hair. Altaïr lay silent, and Malik frowned in concern. He knelt beside the assassin, assessing his wounds. Altaïr was too heavy to lift, – though Malik would never have come to admit it - especially for a man with only one arm, so the Dai took his medicines and gauzes out to where Altaïr lay and sat down beside him. It was difficult to stitch up someone using only one hand, but eventually Malik managed to sew the wound shut. By this time, Altaïr had unclenched his jaw, and his chest rose and fell calmly.

Carefully, Malik moved Altaïr inside and lay him down at the back of the bureau on a small mound of brightly-coloured cushions, making sure the assassin’s wounds were clean and bound. He spent the rest of the warm, dry afternoon completing his maps, watching Altaïr all the while.

Malik could not sleep, he found. He was gripped by such violent insomnia that instead of lying in the cool antechamber of the bureau where he usually slept, he dragged himself back to the counter and clumsily pulled down some unfinished scrolls. A quill was, he believed, almost as useful as a blade. By midnight he abandoned his work, fleeing to the courtyard to sit and smoke and think. By the light of a flame he stayed awake into the early hours of the morning, the dusky brightness of dawn rousing the world awake. Pigeons sat and gossiped on the grate, cocking their heads at Malik when he looked up. There was a time – perhaps only a few minutes – where Malik could forget that Altaïr lay wounded at the back of the bureau. A few moments when he could believe that his arm was still there and that his brother was still alive. But that time went as soon as it came, and the perpetual bitterness filled the rafiq’s mouth once more.

It was just after his bitterness had returned when Altaïr staggered out of the bureau. Malik looked up with sharp, vigilant eyes, alarmed, but he as he saw those serene golden eyes watching him he knew there was no danger. Altaïr sat down heavily beside him, taking a long, heavy breath and falling onto his side, his cowled head falling into Malik’s lap. Malik would have – and usually did – push the assassin’s head away and scold him for such childishness. But this time… this time Malik did not push Altaïr’s head away, nor did he scold him. Instead, he tentatively placed the shisha pipe down on the stone by his side and ran his ink-stained fingers along Altaïr’s sharp cheekbone and up into the hair that was hidden beneath the peaked hood. He felt the assassin’s strong jawline and the stubble that covered his sun-kissed skin. He felt the raised scar, thin over Altaïr’s full Syrian lips. As dawn finally broke, Malik fell asleep with his hand in Altaïr’s hair.

When Malik woke later that day, he found that he had not moved. The sun blared through the grate, its blistering heat warming the Dai’s skin.  
Altaïr moved before Malik did, sitting up and pushing back his hood. Malik frowned, but his words were eaten by the assassin’s smile. Malik could see Altaïr’s mother in that face – the strangely fair skin, the light hair and the golden eyes. Malik had initially removed Altaïr’s bloodstained robed when addressing the wound, but had left the assassin cowled under the knowledge that Altaïr hated having his hood off even more than he disliked bathing. He watched, transfixed, as Altaïr slid his hood up over his head, casting it to the warming stone.

“A little rest and care is all I need, Malik,” Altaïr said, his voice hoarse with disuse. Malik watched him evenly. 

“Let us go inside,” he suggested hollowly. “It grows warm.” As he made to stand, Altaïr placed a broad, nine-fingered hand against his chest. The assassin’s bicep flexed, the gauze soaked with blood. Malik shot him a withering glance. “I must change the dressings.”

Altaïr dutifully followed him inside the bureau, silent and surrounded by the same awesome presence as he usually was. The only one who could beat Altaïr down into submission was Malik. Malik suspected that it was because Altaïr still felt guilty about the incident in Solomon’s Temple.

Altaïr sat down at the crude table at the back of the bureau underneath the loft. Malik sat down on the other side, producing a bowl of liquid and a clean, well-used cloth that had been used for cleaning wounds so much that the white material was permanently stained a deep, dirty crimson. Altaïr flinched as Malik cleaned his wound, but he did not make a sound. Malik bound his arm once more, trying his best not to pay attention to the way the muscles of Altaïr’s bicep quivered. His skin was streaked with a brilliant vermillion; the crude wound was bound shut with neat stiches that Malik still thought unforgivably clumsy.

“Hold still.”

When he was finished, Altaïr stood and watched as Malik stowed his remedies and went to the bureau counter to begin his work for the day.  
All day Malik felt Altaïr watching him. He felt unnerved whenever he looked up from his scrolls or books or visiting assassins and saw those beautiful amber eyes watching him from the smoky dimness of the back of the bureau. They made him feel strange – hot, uncomfortable, irritable, angry… they also made him feel as if invisible hands were wrangling with his guts.

Such sickening feelings continued throughout the day and into the night. When Malik finally decided to turn in for the day, he dismissed Altaïr’s presence and focussed on putting his maps and books and ink and quills away properly so he could find them again in the morning. His mind began to wander, remembering the outrageous prices he had been confronted with in the market earlier that week… before Altaïr arrived. Every single train of thought, no matter how unrelated, ended up with the thought of Altaïr.

Malik was more than ready to let sleep take him. A few hours of rest were all he needed. As he made to douse the incense that burnt so persistently on the counter, he felt two arms of iron wrap around him from behind.

“You should return to Masyaf tomorrow, Altaïr,” Malik growled through clenched teeth, attempting to shake off his assailant. Instead of Altaïr slinking back to his corner as he usually did when Malik grew angry with him, the assassin only held him tighter, his strong fingers creeping up under the fringes of Malik’s Dai coat. “Altaïr,” he hissed, glancing towards the door, his single hand scrabbling at the arm about his throat and the hand that crept up his chest. Only darkness looked back at him, the sliver of moon hidden behind thick banks of clouds. “You cannot do this here! You will re-injure yourself!”

Altaïr chuckled lowly in Malik’s ear, his breath hot and wet. Malik could feel the burning skin of Altaïr’s bare chest through the coarse material of his robes, one strong arm around his shoulder and under his chin. Malik’s resistance was quickly dissipating, and he flinched as Altaïr’s hand groped clumsily about. Malik gripped Altaïr’s forearm tightly, his nails biting into the skin. He clenched his teeth, trying not to make any noise.

“Nobody is here,” Altaïr whispered hoarsely in a voice that made the rafiq shiver, “and nobody is coming,” he smirked. “Except you.”

Malik swore loudly, his whole body jerking spasmodically. He could feel Altaïr smile against the joint of his ear. He refused to look at the assassin, and when he did he armed himself with his fiercest glare.

 

By the following morning Altaïr had readied himself to depart to Masyaf. At first Malik had flatly refused to see the assassin off, but eventually he traipsed outside and was subject to Altaïr’s lingering touch and smouldering gaze that whispered promises of the night before. He felt himself grow warm, and as he watched Altaïr riding out into the closely-packed puzzle of streets that was Jerusalem, he sighed, shaking his head and returning to the bureau.

Altaïr was greeted warmly, and he was glad that nobody could see his wound; he had ridden carefully, careful not to reopen it. He had succeeded, it seemed, since he could see no blood on his sleeve. His mind, however, was absolutely consumed with Malik. The pain and excitement of the previous battle with numerous Templars had left him wounded and exhausted, yet victorious. He loved how bashful Malik became when Altaïr looked at him a certain way, trying to conceal his embarrassment with pseudo-anger. Altaïr found it all very amusing and highly arousing. 

Altaïr had had an eye for Malik Al-Sayf ever since they were novices. They had shared each other’s confidence for a few years between being novices and full-fledged recruits of the Order, but after their acceptance and initiation their lives became busy and their bed lay forgotten. After the incident at Solomon’s Temple Malik had shunned Altaïr, but they had slowly been drawn back together over time as their differences were settled and wounds of the past were closed.  
Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad was now the Grand Master of the Assassin Order, after killing Al Mualim and taking the Apple, and his life was taken up by his work. Malik was one of the more prudent people he’d known, and it was one of the things about the Dai that he loved the most.

He smiled to himself as he rode under the portcullis of the Masyaf castle, already planning his next trip to Jerusalem.


	2. An Opportunity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altaïr grows bored of his Grand Masterly duties, and when an opportunity presents himself he grabs it with both hands.

Altaïr sat behind the wooden desk, staring down at a neatly-written piece of parchment set before him with a wrinkled nose. He was flanked by enormous bookshelves on either side of him, dim sunlight filtering through the grate behind him. He hated paperwork. He wasn’t meant to do this sort of think – this was Malik’s job! Altaïr didn’t like books or reading.

In his novicedom, Altaïr had been the top of his agility and physical training class. He had been near the bottom of the theory classes, however, and he remembered Malik being blindingly better than him when it came to books. Even though Malik was, essentially, the star of those classes, he had never laughed at Altaïr like the other boys had. He smiled inwardly as he remembered, fingering the page absentmindedly.

Suddenly there was a screech from the courtyard outside.

Altaïr rose, his ears conditioned to the sound of an assassin’s cry. With long, flying strides he bounded to the training ring in time to see a grey-sleeved novice with two broken legs and what looked like a fractured collarbone sitting awkwardly on the stone, his mouth open in a perpetual howl. He was screaming to every single god he knew the name of, his hands groping about his grotesquely folded legs clumsily. Altaïr pushed through the crowd, kneeling down and yanking the young man’s legs out from underneath him. The novice screeched like a woman giving birth, but his legs were set.

“G-Grand Master,” an assassin came running, slowing his pace as he approached Altaïr. “You will forgive him, surely. He was not supposed to perform leaps of faith off this area of the building.”  
Altaïr looked at the assassin evenly, his face shaded by his hood. “It is no matter,” he replied. “You look as if you have news.”

The assassin nodded breathlessly, holding up a small scroll that had obviously come from a carrier pigeon. “I do. It tells of a sudden surge of Templars in the Holy City. They make to attack the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. We have dispatched forces, so –,”

Altaïr had not expected his chance to come so soon. “I shall go and oversee their work,” he said immediately, butting the assassin off sharply.

“But we do not –,”

Altaïr had already turned away towards the village and the gate beyond, leaving whatever work he had been sat down to do forgotten.  
 


	3. Banishment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kisses in the darkness and a rather suggestive incident on the bureau's counter.

Malik had a tendency to brood, and he knew it. He would never admit it, of course, but he knew it all the same. He had never been able to stomach Altaïr’s antics, as per se, but he thought – hoped – that it was changing. He also hoped that the assassin wouldn’t show up at his bureau for some time; if Altaïr made an advance again he wasn’t sure if he’d be able to stand it. He would either end up knocking the Grand Master out cold, or…

Malik shivered, cursing the assassin in low tones whilst rolling up his maps. The bureau had grown dark, and Malik was quite ready to turn in for the day, but something felt wrong. His bed was cold and the stump of his arm was engulfed by a niggling pain. He couldn’t sleep; he hadn’t been able to sleep for the last few days. He didn’t know why, and he spent most of his sleepless nights sitting outside in the moonlit courtyard smoking. He thought of Altaïr in Masyaf, albeit grudgingly, and thought of all the Grand Masterly duties he would most likely not be attending to. Malik always though it softly amusing that Altaïr was never quite able to seriously knuckle down when it came to office work. He was always out jumping or climbing or running – Altaïr wanted to fly, and Malik knew that. He’d always known that.

Whenever he thought of the other man, he found, he grew angry… but there was something else there. Something that Malik tried to swallow, something that made him grow warm. He constantly remembered Altaïr’s touch in the darkness, the strange gentleness, the heat and the feel of his scar. Whenever Malik thought of Altaïr, he found himself crouched over the fountain splashing his face and neck, trying to cool himself down. He didn’t necessarily like the feeling it gave him… in fact, he didn’t like it at all. But even so, Altaïr’s floating face whispered only promises of their next meeting.

That night, Malik muttered to himself as he undressed. He was still unaccustomed to having only one arm, and often went to grab at things with a hand that was no longer there. He was still unaccustomed to the feeling despite the rather large amount of time he had gone without it. He sat idly, staring out the shuttered windows. He couldn’t have been more surprised when he heard someone land heavily in the courtyard outside the bureau. Malik turned sharply and snatched up the curved Syrian blade from beside the narrow bed, creeping out into the darkness in absolute silence.

As the assailant lurched towards him Malik swung the knife, only managing a graze.

“Malik!”

“Altaïr?”

The dagger clanged to the stone as Altaïr grabbed the Dai’s shoulders and kissed him hotly. Malik could feel the heat of Altaïr’s hands on his skin, even though he could barely see him. He was so utterly shocked that he could barely blink, but as he registered his situation he felt his knees go weak. He shivered as nine thick fingers probed down his chest. With one skilled hand he managed to slide Altaïr out of the leather and metal and fabric that his robes comprised of, revealing the hard planes of muscles.

“I warned you to keep out of my bureau, novice,” Malik snarled, his hair bristling like a cat’s as he worked open the front of Altaïr’s trousers. Altaïr smiled against his neck, and the two grappled each other and began to gyrate so fervently it could almost be described as violent. They were a mash of lips and teeth and limbs, and Malik felt the edge of the bureau’s counter hit the back of his legs as Altaïr slowly forced him backwards. The assassin helped the rafiq up onto the counter, parting his legs and pushing his knees apart so he could grind their groins together. Malik moaned, the noise eaten by Altaïr’s lips as they kissed. He felt his partner release them both from their confines, and sighed as the cool night air hit his boiling skin. Altaïr slid the Dai’s trousers down his legs, stepping back briefly to cast them to the ground. Malik moaned again, this time unhindered by the passionate zeal of the Grand Master’s lips.

“Do it,” Malik hissed, his lone hand scrabbling at the assassin’s shoulders already abused by Malik’s fingernails during their previous tryst. Altaïr gripped Malik’s thigh with one hand and his aching erection with the other, positioning and pushing. Malik always pleased Altaïr by his ability to go dry and unprepared – in their younger days, when both had been so full of lust, it had proved handy in quick, demanding situations. The Dai moaned, rolling his hips in encouragement. Together, in the dark, cool night, they grunted and sweated and rutted and moaned. Altaïr basked in the tightness and the heat, hissing at the pain of Malik’s fingernails gouging at his back. It was a pain that gave him undying pleasure, and they reached their climax simultaneously in one crushing moment, their sweating forms quivering and pumping and writhing, moving completely as one.

Altaïr’s muscles unclenched as he regained his ability to think – and regained hold on his senses – and Malik slumped in his arms. Smiling, Altaïr kissed him. Malik kissed back, albeit a little less demandingly than he usually would have. The Grand Master wrapped him in his dark Dai coat and carried him into the rafiq’s bed chamber, where they slept late into the morning.

 

When Malik woke up he stretched out along the contours of Altaïr’s body, more content than he had been for a long while. Suddenly his stomach was clenched by an indescribable vulnerability, and he pushed Altaïr off the narrow cot with his feet.

“Malik, what –,”

“Get out,” Malik told him through grated teeth. “You cannot come here and you cannot do this whenever you please!”

Altaïr, his hood thrown back, watched Malik carefully as he got to his feet, wondering how he had wronged the Dai. He decided, after a little internal deliberation, that it would be best to comply and leave. Altaïr had, after all, given the other Masyaf assassins an excuse to come to Jersualem, and if he did not uphold his promise surely there would be trouble waiting for him when he returned. As he vaulted himself out of the bureau, his heart sinking in his chest.


	4. Differences Settled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Altaïr makes himself welcome in the bureau once more.

Malik couldn’t look at him.

Ever since the incident on the bureau counter Altaïr had been flatly denied access to the bureau, regardless of whether or not he was being tailed by a gaggle of Templars. Malik would not open the grate.

He didn’t deserve it, Malik reasoned with himself, constantly trying to block out the heat that pooled in his stomach… heat that had nothing to do with the hot Israeli sun. Let him suffer.

Malik’s maps lay untouched on the shelves, rolled into tight, unforgiving scrolls. His ink-pots lay idle, the fact that they would likely dry out being the last thing on his mind. He could barely think of Altaïr without getting rather hot under the collar, and he 

frequented the fountain more often than not to try and cool his neck and burning cheeks. The feeling made him angry – to him, it was vulnerability.

“Malik!” called Alaïr. Malik could hear the clashing of weapons in the heat of the day above the bureau and the shouts of the Teutonic knights as they attempted to murder the assassin. “Let me in!” Altaïr bellowed again, and over the noise Malik heard the constant sound of dripping blood. Bothering to look out of the corner of his eye at the courtyard, he saw the unmistakable puddle of red forming in the middle of the stone; thankfully away from the carpets. Altaïr’s shadow was cast over the hot stone, showing that he was lying flush against the grate. Malik shook his head and turned back to the half-finished map that lay before him.

Even though he tried to close his ears to the sound of Altaïr and the Teutonic knights above his safe haven, he was unable to ignore it. His eyes kept flicking back to the blood, searching for the shadow that had now disappeared. Concern clotted in his stomach, making him feel slightly nauseous. Sighing, he exited from behind the counter.

Altaïr came crashing through the grate not five minutes later, lying on the burning stone on his side, still – thankfully – away from Malik’s carpets. Blood oozed from between his teeth and he was splattered from head to toe with scarlet. His nose was bleeding and he had sprained his ankle at one point, causing his leg to be overtaken by stinging pain and unsteadiness. Even so, he was not overly hurt, and as he got to his feet Malik breathed a sigh of relief that he would never have let Altaïr see. He stood in the doorway to the bureau, his hand behind his back and his feet set slightly apart, shoulders squared. As Altaïr looked up at him, the assassin noticed the Dai’s slightly defensive stance and smiled inwardly.

“I see you have excited the populace once again, Altaïr,” Malik remarked evenly, his voice sharp with sarcasm. Altaïr was tired and his wit had all but fled him. He staggered into the cool shade near the fountain, kneeling down to splash his face as a remedy against the burning heat, his back to Malik.

Malik wasn’t sure why he walked out into the sunshine. He didn’t see any harm in it at the time, but in retrospect it was the biggest mistake he made that afternoon.

“In the name of Allah, Altaïr,” Malik sighed gruffly, standing a little way off from where Altaïr crouched over the fountain. Altaïr stood up, flinging back his hood. He was sweating profusely, his golden eyes as bright as the sun. His face was covered with water aside from the sweat, dripping off his nose and running past his open lips, down his chin and cascading in rivulets down his neck, soaking the shite material into a dull grey. Malik blinked and looked at him evenly. There was still a slight smear of blood on his chin.

It was Altaïr who moved first, stalking over towards the Dai like an angry cat, his amber eyes flashing. The stump of Malik’s left arm was the first thing he took hold of, sending a shock through the bureau leader so strong that he visibly shuddered. The assassin grabbed the Dai’s shoulder, his fingers firm and unafraid. Altaïr was never afraid.

“Never compromise the Brotherhood, Malik.”

Malik made to reply, but found he couldn’t. There was an obstruction over his lips – he realised a little too late that the assassin was kissing him. Malik could feel the scratch of neglected stubble against his chin, Altaïr’s raised scar pressing into his lips like a lover’s touch. Altaïr’s skin was cool with water and salty with sweat, the blistering stickiness of the blood still clinging to his chin causing Malik to shudder involuntarily.

Malik shoved him away roughly, scrubbing at his lips with his sleeve. “Bastard,” he spat angrily, falling back a step. “What do you think you are doing? If someone was to come –,”

Altaïr’s lips twitched, his scar winking. He stalked forward, pushing Malik back against the warm wall of the bureau courtyard. The assassin kissed the Dai again, harder this time, with a heat that could have challenged the blistering summer sky.

“Altaïr,” Malik managed before Altaïr wrapped his strong arms around him and brought him closer, away from the wall. His grip was hard, relentless, and it sent a shock of arousal through the Dai. Malik tried to growl in protest, but the sound was unheard. He would never have admitted it, but he felt inexcusably aroused. “You cannot do this!”

Altaïr sucked the skin of Malik’s neck, leaving a dark, bruise-like mark. Malik almost kicked him.

“Hurry,” Malik grunted in defeat, gripping the front of the assassin’s robes and yanking him into the bureau.

They didn’t do it on the counter this time. They staggered to the pile of cushions at the back of the room, the air sweet with incense and the scent of their sweat. Malik only had one arm to hold Altaïr with, their skin slick with sweat in the muggy heat. Thankfully Altaïr had two arms, and didn’t let the Dai slip from his grasp. Altaïr help his hips, elevating them and resting his forehead in the crook of Malik’s neck, drinking in the sweetness of the rafiq’s skin.

Altaïr groaned as his hips sunk forward, a low guttural sound that sent shivers up Malik’s spine. His whole body quivered, the cushions feeling marvellously cool against the blistering heat of his skin. For once, Malik didn’t care about his carpets.  
Malik loved the way Altaïr moved his hips. There was a certain fluidity, a certain angle, as if he knew exactly what he was doing. Of course he did.

Malik had never had much luck with women. He had always been rather uptight about everything, and the girls had always found it very unappealing. It had taken a lug like Altaïr to unravel his bonds. They had been practically drowned in wine the night Altaïr first tool Malik to bed. He hadn’t believed him to be a woman – no, Altaïr had known it was Malik. His name was all he really said. Malik experienced Altaïr’s sexual prowess for the first time that night, and it had stuck in his mind ever since.

“Altaïr,” he gasped, his throat dry. His one hand scrabbled at Altaïr’s shoulders, causing the assassin to hiss loudly. Nails scraped over the assassin’s shoulders, running over the knotted muscles tense with pleasure. Altaïr’s hands probed down his sides, feeling a body that had gone un-softened. Malik had not let himself grow lax, regardless as to whether he was missing an arm or not. Malik greatly disliked weakness, and neglecting to train was something that made him feel weak. His muscles were defined, even in Altaïr’s clouded vision.

Malik tipped his head back, a groan slipping past his lips. His hand slid down Altaïr’s arm, his fingers striking the stitches. He could feel the muscles in Altaïr’s arm working, and he felt the cushions beneath them shift with every move. He whispered the assassin’s name again, and was rewarded with a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth. His hand shot out to grip Altaïr’s hair, his fingers curling into a fist, and yanked the assassin back down when he went to move away. Their mouths collided in a mash of lips and tongue and teeth, their breath hot and heavy. Altaïr gripped Malik’s thighs, lifting them and rocking his entire body like a piston. His arm went back around the assassin’s shoulders, and he bit down into Altaïr’s shoulder as he fought not to make any great amount of noise. He heard Altaïr grunt and still himself, his body trembling. Malik’s entire being quivered spasmodically, each muscle constricting as he felt a mind-numbing heat spread up from his groin.  
He collapsed against the cushions, his breath heavy. Altaïr’s heavy weight sunk down against him, his thick arms encircling the Dai.

“God be good, Altaïr,” Malik groaned. He heard Altaïr chuckle, his sandy-haired head lying against the Dai’s chest. Malik ran his fingers through the assassin’s hair, and was glad to see that his wound had not reopened. “You should get up,” he said. “Somebody might come.”

Altaïr rose onto his hands, his golden eyes looking down at Malik’s dark brown ones. They were in such close proximity, not hidden at the back of the bureau like two flecks of flame. The assassin smiled and bent his powerful body down to kiss the rafiq.

“Am I welcome in your bureau now, Malik?”

“No more than any other brother.”

Altaïr smiled against Malik’s lips. It was enough.

As their lips parted Altaïr rose like a great eagle, sliding on his trousers and binding them with a soft vermillion sash. Malik had noticed that Altaïr’s sash was softer than his – of course their robes had to be comfortable to move and live in… often for days at a time. Malik half-smiled as Altaïr swaggered into the small antechamber, shooting Malik a sultry glance before disappearing. Malik’s stomach clenched, and he pulled his coat about him, standing. After he gathered up any suspicious garments of clothing, he followed Altaïr into the little room, closing the door behind them.


End file.
